At last on an exotic beach with all thought of longanimity far behind him, he settled down to enjoy a long awaited island speciality of flathead stew.

The hardship of life had taken its toll on him. His pasty looking face often suggested a state of death warmed up. Longanimity had meant he had spent so much of his life at the school of hard knocks and it had been a moment of afflatus, that was at the time likened to Paul on the road to Damascus, that turned around his life.

He was able to extract himself from the ledge overlooking impending doom, gather himself together and make a fist of a life that seemed destined to be a series of longanimated episodes each in their own way like a jailor to be dealt with as harshly as possible.

So now he sat at a table in a restaurant on the most exotic of islands, resplendent in his emerald coloured shirt with the crescent shaped butterfly wings adorning it, as just another customer, anonymous amidst the noise of happy holiday makers, none cringing from the knowledge that among them sat the enigma that he was, on the one hand, a longanimatist and on the other an afflatus who knew that in a short time from now having filtered through all the revelations that had recently come his way a rather large and destructive tsunami would strike the island bring with it massive devastation.

But not he knew until after he had finished his filtered coffee, brushed his teeth and climbed to the top of the highest peak on the island. He wondered if he should tell anyone and the thought stewed in his mind.